


A Little Disquieting

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Protectiveness, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Alexander is hurt, and Washington's protectiveness takes a violent turn.





	A Little Disquieting

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Enrage](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**

When Washington woke to the insistent buzz, he smacked his alarm clock twice before realizing it was actually his phone vibrating with an incoming call. He stared at the screen, didn't recognize the number. 

The gnawing sense of dread in his stomach made him answer anyway.

No one ever called him in the middle of the night. No one except—very occasionally—Alexander, when he was in the sort of fucked up mood that wouldn't let him sleep. When the boy's usual distractions weren't enough and he needed an actual human being to talk to, an outlet for the frenetic whirlwind of doubts and ambitions and difficult memories.

They shared a well-honed understanding. Washington didn't begrudge the lack of sleep when Alexander needed him.

But this was none of Alexander's numbers.

"Hello?" The word came out bleary and slurred.

"Is this George Washington?" asked a feminine, far too careful voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes," he answered, already kicking his blankets aside and rising from the bed.

By the time Washington reached the hospital, Alexander was awake. His boy looked petulant and sullen, glowering at the doctor checking the cast on his right hand—his writing hand—and giving monosyllabic answers to her questions. He didn't even glance at the door when Washington stepped into the room. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than ever, but they were nothing next to the bruise blossoming across his left cheek. Alexander's jaw was swollen too, his arm resting in a sling, his skinny frame covered by a hospital gown and nothing else.

The sight of him, quiet and simmering and hurt, made Washington want to tear whoever had done this apart with his bare hands.

Alexander sat perched on the edge of the hospital bed instead of _in it_ , and Washington had the distinct suspicion he'd been trying to make his escape when the doctor came to check on his newly bandaged hand.

"Everything looks good," the doctor announced, rising and moving for the door. She spared Washington a nod before addressing Alexander again. "I'll get your discharge paperwork ready to sign. You'll want to schedule a followup appointment before you leave."

Washington closed the door behind the retreating physician before turning his sternest glare on the boy. "What the hell happened?"

Alexander's expression held rigid as he tilted his head back to meet Washington's eyes. "Can we postpone the lecture until I'm _not_ practically naked? I've only been in this hospital an hour, and they already managed to take my clothes away."

"You were _unconscious_ , Alexander."

"Only for like twenty minutes. _Tops_."

"For God's sake—"

"Can we not right now? Seriously, I just want my clothes and a ride home. Can you please just... figure out where my stuff is so we can go?"

A soft tap at the door startled Washington nearly out of his skin, and he stepped aside as the latch turned and the door swung inward. A nurse carried a bundle of clothing in her arms—presumably Alexander's—and wore a polite smile on her face as she handed them over.

"Thank fuck," Alexander breathed as the door clicked shut once more.

It was a less than graceful affair, getting Alexander out of the hospital gown and back into his clothes. Awkward, despite how very intimately they already knew each other. Washington was careful as he removed the sling and helped Alexander into his shirt sleeves, trying not to jostle his arm too much, then did up the buttons since the cast made the task nearly impossible.

Washington waited until Alexander was buckled into the passenger seat of his car to ask, "When did you make me your emergency contact?"

Alexander shrugged, but the tightness around his eyes—visible in the passing illumination of a streetlight—belied the careless gesture. "A couple months ago."

"And you didn't tell me because...?"

A moment of quiet strung taut before the answer came. "Wasn't sure you'd be thrilled about it. I kinda hoped you wouldn't ever find out. I don't make a _habit_ of getting into fights at bars."

"Is that what happened?" Washington kept his eyes turned straight ahead, his focus on the road, his hands knuckle-white on the wheel. An overly helpful nurse had informed him that a police officer spoke to Alexander shortly after he woke; that Alexander had refused to answer questions, had neglected to name his attacker. That there was nothing the officer could do without information. There were no charges to press if they couldn't identify a culprit.

Alexander fell quiet instead of answering, and protective rage surged bright and hot in Washington's chest.

" _Alexander_ ," Washington pressed, injecting his voice with sternness he usually reserved for professional spheres. He'd gone to great lengths to keep a wall of separation between the personal and the professional when it came to Alexander Hamilton. Their understanding, unspoken and complicated as it was, only worked because it didn't carry over into the workplace; when they were off the clock Washington was _not Alexander's boss_.

Even so he knew the situation was tenuous. A dubious balance at best. He was simply selfish enough not to care.

"Talk to me," he said now, determined to get an answer. They had a long drive ahead of them—Washington lived a solid forty minutes from this hospital—and the fact that it was nearly two in the morning did not shave nearly enough time off the distance.

Alexander drew a slow breath. "I wasn't trying to pick a fight. I sure as hell didn't expect anyone I knew to be at a bar _John_ chose. You know the kind of upscale hipster bullshit he likes."

Washington hummed a sound that meant _keep going_. Not impatient, not interrupting, just. Needing more. So Alexander had been out drinking with John Laurens; that was hardly an unusual state of affairs. It had never resulted in a hospital visit before.

But instead of continuing, Alexander fell silent again—a different sort of quiet this time. Small and restless and distracted.

"Are you all right?" Washington asked without taking his eyes off the road.

"Sure," Hamilton said. But he sounded wrong. Lost. And a moment later he said in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, "I'm sorry I fucked up your night. I can change my paperwork so this doesn't happen again."

"Alexander." Washington gripped the steering wheel more tightly, and it took every scrap of exhausted self control to keep his tone even. "I'm not angry the hospital called me. It's what they're supposed to do." He bit his tongue to keep from ordering Alexander to leave his emergency contact list exactly the way it was; if the boy wanted to change it, that was his prerogative.

"But you were asleep," Alexander protested.

"And now I'm here. And I'm going to take care of you. For God's sake, you don't have to _apologize_ for needing a ride home from the hospital."

Alexander breathed a wounded sort of laugh. "Come on, what kind of asshole makes his _boss_ his emergency contact?"

The question stung—as it was obviously intended to—but Washington bit his lower lip and didn't retort in kind. He was well accustomed to Alexander's sharp tongue. The boy had an alarming skill for lashing out with almost surgical precision when he felt vulnerable. It was something Washington had known in the abstract from their years-long working relationship, and had grown much more familiar with since their relationship took an intimate turn.

He spent a moment corralling his reactions and measuring his response, and when he trusted himself to remain calm he said, "I'm not your boss right now, Alexander." He didn't know precisely _what_ he was to the boy most days, but he knew damn well that now—tonight—everything about this was private and personal.

Alexander fell quiet again, and neither of them spoke until they reached Washington's house.

"This isn't my apartment," Alexander protested as Washington pulled up the steep driveway and into the garage. Apparently he hadn't been paying attention to their route.

"No," Washington agreed. "You're staying with me tonight. You have a concussion."

He was honestly surprised Alexander didn't try to argue with him. Maybe the boy simply recognized there was no point, or maybe he was truly so exhausted he didn't care. Whatever the reason, Washington counted his blessings as he let them both inside and led the way upstairs.

Undressing Alexander went more smoothly than dressing him, and it took only a matter of minutes to get him tucked beneath the covers and situated as comfortably as possible. A white paper bag from the hospital pharmacy held a small bottle of prescription pain medicine, though Hamilton looked at the medicine askance.

Washington fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and set it beside the painkillers on the nightstand near Alexander's pillow. "Do you want to take one now?"

"Nope." The word was spoken with false cheer.

Washington considered, then opened the bottle of medicine anyway and set one of the tablets loose beside the glass of water. Just in case.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, and brushed Alexander's hair from his face. A more tender gesture than he usually indulged, but then these were unusual circumstances. He could feel dark eyes following him curiously as he drew his hand away and dropped it to the bedspread.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," Washington said, quiet steel in his voice. "But I want to know _who_."

"It doesn't matter," Alexander protested. "Even if I hadn't gotten a few good licks of my own in, it's not like the charges would stick. That bag of slime is slippery as fuck."

"Jefferson," Washington surmised with an ice cold burst of rage.

"He's always had it in for me." Alexander's gaze cut away, obviously embarrassed. Even in the dim bedroom, lit only by light slanting in from both the hall and bathroom doors, a visible flush of anger and shame crossed his face. "Christ, the things he says when no one else can hear him, just because he knows he can get away with it."

Washington didn't ask if Alexander had thrown the first punch. Even if he _had_ started the fight, Washington could imagine the vile provocations that might have driven him to it. The deliberate, calculated baiting Thomas Jefferson was capable of. Hell, Alexander was out with Laurens tonight—a friend so hotheaded he made _Alexander_ appear calm and reasonable—it could just as easily have been John to throw the first punch.

Washington didn't ask, because it _didn't matter_.

"I hate him," Alexander said in a small, honest voice. He sounded younger in that moment than Washington had ever heard.

Washington squashed his rage down, low and tight, saving it for later. Kept his voice gentle as he asked, "Was it Jefferson who broke your hand?"

Alexander nodded, still not actually looking at him. "He stepped on it. After he laid me out. John tried to stop him."

Washington nearly bit his lower lip bloody at the molten-hot fury sweeping through him. He held perfectly still, but Alexander's attention flew to him anyway. Locked on hard as though he could see straight into the violent and bloody thoughts in Washington's mind.

"Promise you won't do anything," Alexander said. His eyes had gone wide.

Washington did not lie often. He maintained a very deliberate fiction that he did not lie at all. That he had no particular skill for it. But he lied now, calm and easy, looking his boy in the eye without remorse.

"I promise." Then he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Alexander's temple, not caring that it was too soft a gesture, or that tenderness had no place in this secret arrangement between them. He straightened and stood a moment later. "Sleep, Alexander. I'll wake you up in an hour." The doctor had said it wasn't strictly necessary, but Washington didn't intend to take any chances. He would wake Alexander in an hour, just to make sure everything was still all right.

But first he had something else to take care of. And as soon as he was sure Alexander had fallen asleep, he left the house in total silence.

By pure chance, Thomas Jefferson lived only a handful of blocks away. Washington covered the distance quickly, bundled in a dark jacket with a scarf covering his face, leather gloves on his hands, a black newsboys cap on his head. Perfectly normal layers given the biting chill of early spring, but useful for the anonymity they provided.

The lights were on in Jefferson's condo. Washington considered ringing the doorbell, but decided that was too normal. Too reasonable for what he intended. The deadbolt was not turned, and Washington easily popped the front door lock with a credit card. Then he was in, smooth and simple.

He moved not quite silently over hardwood floor, steps quiet enough to disappear beneath the strains of music twining through the air from high-quality speakers. Washington had been in this space before. He'd been acquainted with Jefferson too many years to avoid the man entirely. He navigated without difficulty now, through the living room and toward the kitchen at the back of the first floor.

Jefferson was alone—good—Washington could have dealt with the man's barnacle of a best friend, but he preferred to do this in solitude. No witnesses. No James Madison. Better in every conceivable way.

There was a long moment before Jefferson noticed him. An expectant quiet in which Washington stood in the doorframe and simply watched Jefferson knock back a long swallow of some amber beverage—probably whiskey—and press an icepack to his jaw.

Alexander _had_ mentioned he got a good knock or two in before losing the fight.

"Thomas," Washington said when he grew impatient. Sick satisfaction pulsed in his blood at the way the man startled. The ice pack fumbled, bumping against a cabinet as it fell. The glass dropped too, shattering noisily on the floor, spilling sloppily across the tiles.

"What the _fuck_ ," Jefferson snarled, whirling on him. Careless of the shards of glass shattered across the floor, despite the fact that he was in stocking feet.

Washington calmly tugged the scarf down from his face, just in case the sound of his voice wasn't enough to identify him. He wasn't interested in anonymity now that he was here. This was business.

He moved quickly—sharply—stalking forward across the kitchen with steps that crunched atop shattered glass. Jefferson tried to dodge away, and when that didn't work took a wobbly swing at Washington's jaw. Child's play to block the punch. Even if Jefferson had been sober, he wouldn't have gotten a hit through Washington's practiced defenses; tipsy as he clearly was, the attempt was laughable.

Washington swatted the swing aside and loomed forward, reaching up and twisting his fingers hard around Jefferson's throat.

Three more steps forward, shoving Jefferson off balance all the while, and they reached the edge of the room. Washington took no care for the state of Jefferson's skull as he slammed his target hard against the wall.

He could _feel_ Jefferson struggling to breathe beneath his gloved hand. Satisfaction sang through his chest at the sight of wide eyes, genuine fear flashing in the man's normally smug face. God, in this moment he honestly wished he could simply kill Jefferson and walk away. This monster had hurt his boy—made a habit of hurting his boy with words and barbs and social maneuvering—but tonight had crossed a line. And Washington wanted to see the glint of life go out of the man's eyes, with a desperation that honestly terrified him.

He settled for squeezing tighter just for a moment. Just enough to make terror snap brighter in wide eyes, before easing back enough to allow Jefferson a series of panicked and shaking breaths.

Washington kept hold of Jefferson's throat and spoke in a quiet voice. "If you ever touch him again, I'll kill you."

He squeezed tighter once more. Prevented Jefferson from drawing a breath, keeping hold until skinny fingers reached for him and tried to claw loose. Ineffective panic. Washington savored this too.

Then, just as Jefferson's eyes began to roll back in his head, Washington let go. He stepped back and away, letting the man fall. Jefferson hit his knees hard, palms pressing against the floor for balance. Washington saw a streak of blood on the tile—Jefferson must have landed on a shard of glass.

 _Good_.

"Sleep well tonight, Thomas," Washington murmured as he left the kitchen.

He didn't bother to make sure the front door was locked as he left the condo and began his slow walk home.

Alexander was still asleep when Washington returned. Nearly four-thirty now, there were only a couple more hours until sunrise, but Washington changed back into his sleepwear anyway. Worn sweatpants and a soft t-shirt. He had no intention of going in to work today, and he sure as hell wasn't letting Alexander anywhere near the office. 

"Sir?" Alexander stirred as Washington eased beneath the covers.

"Hush," Washington whispered, slipping behind him and tucking his boy into his arms. "Go back to sleep."

Alexander hummed a quiet, sleepy sound and settled once more. Easy and familiar in Washington's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** if that is a place anyone still goes. In the rare instance I'm inspired to post things that aren't fic--or participate in wider fandom happenings--that's where you'll find me. :D


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